


Protocols

by sarcasticsra



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Meme of Interest, Prompt Fill, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has occasionally wondered what Harold might look like under those expensive custom-made three piece suits of his, but even biased as his opinion is, somehow he didn’t anticipate him being so…well-endowed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protocols

**Author's Note:**

> For the meme_of_interest: _OK, look, I just want a story where Harold turns out to have a ludicrously large cock and Reese finds out and can't stop thinking about what it would feel like to have Harold fuck him with it. Bonus: Reese gets to find out!_
> 
> Thanks for the beta, Kelly!

Decontamination protocols are not big on modesty, which is fine with John; what little modesty he’d once possessed had been driven out of him thoroughly during his time with the CIA. Harold, on the other hand, looks as uncomfortable as he’s ever seen him, stripped down to boxers. Privately, John doesn’t think he has anything to worry about, but he has long since stopped considering his opinion of Harold to be anything other than biased.

“Everything has to go, Harold,” he reminds him gently, and Harold gives him a waspish look.

“I heard you the first time, Mr. Reese.”

John nods and lets that go, taking off the last of his own clothes. This is just a precaution, and it’ll be over soon. Harold will be fine.

He glances over just as Harold is divesting himself of his boxers and forces himself to look away quickly, swallowing involuntarily. He has occasionally wondered what Harold might look like under those expensive custom-made three piece suits of his, but even biased as his opinion is, somehow he didn’t anticipate him being so…well-endowed. 

“Let’s get this over with, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and John nods, thoroughly distracted. Fortunately, Harold is too wrapped up in his own discomfort to notice.

\---

After that, John spends far too much time thinking about Harold’s cock.

He supposes he should be embarrassed by this, but he’s known for a while that his devotion to Harold is beyond platonic, and every so often, the fantasy is nice to hold onto. 

Of course, now one particular fantasy crops up more frequently than _every so often_ : detailed images of Harold fucking him flit through his mind, and he can’t decide which way he’d like it best—slowly sinking down onto his cock, eyes locked with Harold’s, or on his hands and knees, aching, or bent over something, a couch or a desk, maybe begging for it. He’s not sure Harold would make him beg, but he would enjoy it, being teased while Harold presses in slowly, stretching him, filling him. He has to have been at least nine inches in length, and John would pant and clutch at the desk or the couch, begging for every last bit of it.

Maybe Harold would even call him _Mr. Reese_.

John exhales a long breath, taking his own cock in hand, and imagines the point when Harold’s control would _snap_ , his thrusts turning sharp and ragged. He can hear Harold’s voice in his ear, telling him that under no circumstances is he allowed to come unless given permission, _is that understood, Mr. Reese?_ and his breath catches in his throat, eyes falling shut.

Yes, that’s what he wants, he decides. Harold taking him, claiming him—or at least more viscerally than he already has, not with suits (and hadn’t those fittings been fun, half-hard the entire time Harold’s hands were on him, too early on in their partnership for him to really know why) but with action, with the steel hiding in his presence, just underneath the _please don’t notice me_ exterior.

Because he can see himself nodding, hoarsely whispering, _yes, please, Harold_ , telling him he wants it, needs it all, and his breath quickens just as his hand speeds up; a few moments later he comes hard with Harold’s name on his lips, imagining Harold’s cock inside him, Harold’s breath on his neck, Harold’s voice in his head saying, _yes, very good, come for me, Mr. Reese._

He pants heavily and leans back against his headboard, opening his eyes and reaching for the tissues on the nightstand. He spots his phone next to them, and as he cleans himself up, he wonders if this might have been one of those times Harold was listening. 

Heat runs through him at the thought, even if it’s too soon after to do anything about it. Still, it has potential—would Harold get hard listening to him? Would he touch himself? Would he hear his name and get off?

He’ll have to add it to his list.

\---

It’s beginning to become a problem; he catches himself staring at Harold three times in the following week, gaze inevitably drifting to his groin. He has stray thoughts whenever he sees the desk in the Library, or the couch, like right now, mapping out where might be the best place to position his hands.

“Mr. Reese, exactly what about my computer desk do you find so fascinating, if I might ask?”

He manages a shrug. “Just thinking, Harold.”

“Yes, you’ve been doing that a lot lately,” he says. “You seem thoroughly preoccupied by something.”

“I’m fine. Should probably get going, actually,” he says, and stands.

“Sit down, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and John finds himself sitting before he’s even aware he’s doing it. He ignores the jolt that shoots through him. “You’re distracted, and have been distracted, for going on two weeks now. In this line of work, distractions are deadly, and we will get to the bottom of it.”

“It’s nothing, and I’ve been fine. Nothing’s happened to me.”

“I don’t like increasing the odds that something _could_ happen to you. God knows they’re high enough already.”

“I’m touched, Harold,” he says lightly.

Harold eyes him for a long moment. “Very well, we’ll work backwards. What happened roughly two weeks ago that might have caused this?” He pauses, considering. “There was the close call with Ms. Milligan and her penchant for dangerous substances, but that wasn’t any worse than Mr. Alanson and his crude explosives the week before that, so I can’t think this has anything to do with undue stress.” He frowns. “Was it the decontamination procedure? That was uncomfortable, but hardly traumatizing, I should think.”

“I’m not traumatized, Finch. I’m fine. Can I go now?”

He blinks. “How peculiar.”

John just gives him a look. 

“Your reaction,” he says. “ _Does_ this have something to do with the decontamination procedure?”

“No,” he lies, and stands up.

“Please sit back down, John,” he says quietly, eyes on his, and there it is, the _steel_ , “and explain why you just felt the need to lie to me.”

Holding Harold’s gaze, the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, low and breathy: “Fuck me.”

Harold’s eyebrows climb. “Excuse me?”

“If you want me to stop being so distracted, Harold,” John says, because he’s already crossed the line, “then _fuck me_.”

Harold wets his lips, silent for a moment, and then says, “Very well, but only under one condition.”

“And what would that be?” John manages to ask, through whatever’s suddenly lodged in his throat.

“That this is not a one-time thing merely to ease your distraction,” he says. “If I fuck you now, John, I would vastly prefer to be able to do it again.”

An image of Harold bending him over and taking him whenever he feels like it floats through his mind, and he can feel himself hardening already. “Of course,” he breathes.

Harold stands. “We’ll be going to your apartment.”

\---

As it turns out, being fucked by Harold is even better than he imagined, braced over his couch, Harold’s thrusts hard and deliberate, hands gripping his hips. John pants and gasps for breath, his own cock rock hard and leaking precome, and feels split in two in the most incredible way. When he finally manages to choke out, “ _Please_ , Harold,” Harold’s grip tightens.

“Oh, John,” he murmurs quietly, and then there’s another powerful thrust, and he continues, in a much steelier tone, “You are not to come until I permit it. Is that understood, Mr. Reese?”

John lets out a strangled noise, maybe a whimper, and nods.


End file.
